


well it goes like this

by rikacain



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, Or planned relationship because I stopped halfway, Role Reversal AU, there's an actual tag for it huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:24:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"An exploding pen," he remarks dryly, stating the obvious.</p><p>"They're my specialty," Seven says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well it goes like this

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm clearing out my Evernote and I have a buttload of fic that I've abandoned because what is commitment hahahaha sobs.
> 
> That being said, this is an abandoned fic that was well. Last touched in 2014, so my writing style and characterisation then was pretty wonky maybe. Not that in 2015 and 2016 it got any better, heh. But main drive was my love for role reversals that's more than copy paste, and more Severine being the Bond villain she could have been.
> 
> (It's 2016, guys. Give me a female villain already fuckit)
> 
> Maybe someone will read it and I don't know, enjoy it. I just think it's a shame to leave it in my storage.

 They grapple on top of the train, one thin and whip-fast, the other grounded and bulky. He can hear Tanner in his earpiece, he's up front and _I repeat, not a clear shot_. The hard drive is there, around the thief's neck and he just has to aim for his knees, throw his balance off.

"Take the shot," M orders. 

Tanner takes the shot and there's a flash of white-hot pain he curls instinctively up at, bloody reflexes. The thief takes his own shot and throws him off, and he falls, falls and falls into ice-cold water that rushes fast and screams pressure into his ears. The water is dark and dirty and tosses him about, and he closes his eyes and curls.

"Agent Q down," his earpiece crackles before water seeps in and he's left, alone. 

* * *

Q is the youngest agent given a license to kill in the murky history of MI6, the youngest agent to be given an alphabet and discard his name. It's a decision made by the previous M, the female M who has a china bulldog on her desk and took it with her when she retired. Q is a mistake, many of the other agents whisper, disapproving - too young, too inexperienced, too arrogant. He's just a boy, for goodness' sake, rash decisions will be made, and look at him, thin and light, how will he ever kill someone? Killing is not a walk in the park; killing constantly is a fucking psychological chore. 

Moneypenny sees, Q with a rope in his hand over the fucker of an abusive father, eyes bright and hard. Behind him, his sister lies spread-eagled over the bed, big red palm prints over her pale, pale throat, mouth open in one last gasp and eyes (thank god) closed. Mother's gone, long time ago, and wouldn't, couldn't bring her big boy and little girl away with her. He turns himself in at the nearest police station - he can never get far with a half-arsed education spent on survival instead of grades, and at the very least a home will provide him with food. They don't know what to do with him, then. 

M takes him into MI6. The best recruits, she once tells Moneypenny, are always the orphans. 

Q goes through training, establishes a vicious streak against anything that happens to be out to kill him. Other than that, he becomes a rather quiet young man, quick with his hands, quicker with his words. He has a fondness for Earl Grey and misshapen cardigans, and happens to like tinkering with the gadgets given to him as a side hobby. His kill count is double digit and rising, but it doesn't inspire any confidence in anyone, at all. 

He could have been part of the tech department, he knows. It's only that he made a far better killer than he made gadgets. 

* * *

"My retirement has been too hasty," she tells him, straight in the face. "Or at least, that's what the Prime Minister is concerned about."

M pinches the bridge of his nose, slow. It doesn't help. "Wasn't he concerned that you were falling behind the times?"

She smiles, but there's nothing friendly within it. It's nothing personal, they both know, but if M fails, she becomes M again and he'll be shipped off to another less... compromising position. M doesn't want that, but she just might. 

"Get it resolved, quickly," she tells him, if only to say the words out loud. "Did you kill one of my finer agents? Agents don't grow on trees, Mallory."

"Not your finest, then," M deflects. 

"Of course not," she says crisply. "Your finest is currently retired."

* * *

M gets an email.

It's on his private server, anonymous sender. The subject reads 'RE: Do you feel lucky today?' and its content is a mere link. It leads to a plain website with a roulette, red and black and spinning. 'Welcome, Mr. M," a caption above the roulette says, and below is a simple white button that reads ' _stop the wheel_ '. 

The car jerks to a stop, causing Moneypenny to look up from her PDA, petulant. "You'd think that they would learn by now," she remarks as she wrenches the door open to give the policemen that stopped them a good talking-down to. M looks back at the page, with its spinning roulette. 

He clicks. 

The wheel slows down gradually, a simulated click-clack playing for unnecessary effect. There are words on every slice of red and black, he realises - Paris on a red, Washington on a black, Moscow and Prague and so forth. The wheel turns and turns and turns, and settles on 'London'. Moneypenny returns to the car. 

"Sir," she says just as the MI6 building blows. 

* * *

Q is found on the shores of some place exotic and unknown, where men challenge death with a scorpion on the back of their hands and a glass of scotch. He watches one of the locals take up the challenge, Adam apple bobbing jerkily as he swallows and finally trapping the scorpion in the empty glass, adrenaline and alcohol flushing his face red. He has just brushed past his own version of near-death. He knows nothing. 

He sits there, until the last of the patrons trickle out of the area and it's only the bartender and him left, with dusty bottles of gin and whiskey and scotch. He sits there until the sky paints the whole world blue, the moment before dawn is about to break. 

'Breaking news,' the telly rasps out. 'An attack on the British Intelligence Headquarters has recently occurred, ten deaths and more casualties...'

Q closes his eyes and feels the newly-formed scar just about his left shoulder slide against the rough cotton of his shirt. His vacation, it would seem, was far from beginning.

* * *

"Agent Q," M says, after he gets over his shock of an intruder breaking into his home. The security is honestly sub-par, Q feels, but he's not feeling generous enough to tell him. "What took you so long?" 

"An opportunity at a vacation," he tells M drily. "I think anyone would deserve one when they find out about their employer's casual disregard for their employee's life." It is a sore spot that Q nurses over the day - he knows about the whispers, the expectations of failure that they have for him. He had not cared about their thoughts - and with professionalism in mind, he had thought M would do the same. Apparently not. 

M looks at him. "Q," he says. "I know you are smart."

"Is this an attempt at patronising me?" Q replies frostily. 

"No," M says sharply. "This is me laying out the facts I expect you to see, considering that although you're younger than most agents with license to kill, you are not considered for making immature decisions. We had you to retrieve the hard drive. We had Tanner with a shot at taking out the mark. Had it been you, what would you have done?"

Q glowers at him, sullen. The dark of the shadows thrown by the lamp M had turned on helps to conceal his expression. "Trust," he tells M. "Is that so hard to give."

It is a good concession as any, but M presses his point home. "Yes," he says. "In this line of occupation, both you and I know that there is none to give."

* * *

The new MI6 headquarters is underground, with faded brick walls and white fluorescent lights. Moneypenny throws her arms around him, hugging him close - agents are expected to be professional, but surely friendliness between colleagues will not be called out on. 

"Welcome back," she says, smoothing down her dress as she steps back. "They sold your flat, but you never did have much in that small hole anyway." Q nods a slight bit distractedly, his eyes drawn to another figure at a table - Tanner, in a dark suit and tie. The man looks up, gives a jerky nod and immediately hurries away. "We just need you to run through the standard procedure, then we'll push you right back into active duty."

"And I thought you were eager to keep me here," Q says absently as Moneypenny ushers him to the labs. She laughs and updates him on the latest developments of MI6 - the hard drive is still missing, and M is under fire from the Parliament. There's a twist of sadistic pleasure at the notion which Q files away under feelings of pettiness; he concentrates the pulls up he's supposed to be doing. There's something in his left shoulder, he feels it now, and soon enough he merely stops. Moneypenny looks at him, curious. 

"Time alone, if you please," he says. 

She nods briskly and leaves the room, motioning for the rest of the staff to follower. Q waits until they close door behind them and drops onto the floor, leaning heavily against the cold metal bar. His left shoulder positively aches - there are muscles in there he isn't meant to be pulling, and something is causing them to pull. 

(Later, he digs out shrapnel from his shoulder - remnants of a bullet, a reminder of not-trust.)

Q breathes, breathes and breathes before getting back up.

* * *

He passes his psych tests with textbook answers, and scrapes through his shooting run. He's back on active duty (b _y the skin of his teeth_ , M emphasises), and Moneypenny gives him a cup of Earl Grey as congratulations. "Someone tipped us to go to Shanghai," she tells him. "Go down to the double-oh's before running off. Look for Seven, he'll give you your toys."

Q thanks her before following her instructions. The double-oh's branch is on the lowest level but lit brightly by the countless computer screens littering the place. He has had the honour of working with a few of them before, but they are either dead or not here. A man in his forties stride up to him, his features etched into a slight frown. 

"I'm looking for Seven," he tells him before the man could ask him what he wants. Said man's lips quirk up into a wry half-smile. 

"Bloody well aware of that," he says, gruff. "Agent Q. I'm Seven." He looks at Q, giving him a quick once-over. "Aren't you too young for this? You have _spots_ on your face."

"My complexion is of no concern to you," Q says, petulant.

"Your competence certainly is," he shoots back. 

"Age is no guarantee of experience." 

Seven snorts. "And youth is no guarantee of innovation. Come along, agent. It's an early Christmas for you." He hands Q an envelope, which Q takes gingerly. 'Tickets to Shanghai', the blocky print reads. 

"I don't fly," Q tells Seven, frown matching his.  

"I'm not about to book a cruise for you, if that's what you want," Seven replies. He pops open a black case on the nearby table and hands Q a gun next. "Calibrated to your palm-prints," he says shortly. "Which means - "

"Only I can fire it," Q interrupts impatiently. 

Seven regards him coolly. "Yes. A gold star for you, Agent Q." He pulls out a pen, clicks it two times. The clip of the pen flashes red, over and over. "Radio transmitter disguised as a pen. Click twice for a distress signal, thrice to blow something up." Seven clicks it once more and tosses it over, Q barely managing to catch it. The disparaging look on Seven's face is clear - Q wagers that this is a personalised test of testing an agent's mettle, and Q has failed spectacularly. 

Q looks down at the pen, small and unassuming. "An exploding pen," he remarks dryly, stating the obvious.

"They're my specialty," Seven says. 

* * *

Q takes a flight in the end, after he swallows a good deal of pills enough to blur the world soft (and potentially knock a horse out). He tracks the thief down, watches him kill civilian-or-nuisance number hundred and forty nine and manages to drop said thief off the edge of a tall, tall building (and watches him fall, Q does not). A quick rifle through the contents of his luggage reveals a single black chip the size of Q's palm, a golden dragon embossed on its side. The finer print tells him that his next lead is in Macau. 

At least he can take a car this time, he thinks wryly.

* * *

_Do you feel lucky today?_  The screen reads, white words on black. Beneath, is a slot machine, its three reels spinning and spinning and spinning. 

M looks, and sets his mouth into a grim line. He clicks on the lever of the slot machine. 

The reels slow down, finally settling into a formation of three 'sevens'. 'Congratulations' rolls across the screen, and the site burns away, redirecting itself to YouTube. Five names flash repeatedly on the video. 

M reaches for his phone. "Moneypenny, withdraw the agents immediately," he says into the phone, eyes still on the computer. "They've released the first five names." The video plays, over and over, before ending with a simple text of ' _not so lucky after all_ '. 

* * *

"Three days behind schedule," Seven says just as Q opens the door. "The epitome of efficiency, you are. Have you heard of buying another plane ticket?"

Q blinks at him. "Seven. What are you doing here?"

"They've released the first five names on the hard drive that you lost," Seven says matter-of-factly. "I'm here to encourage your arse to move faster." He flips open a file, skimming through its content. "We found the casino that chip belongs to. I've got an invitation, for two."

"A number doing fieldwork," Q says. "Interesting."

"Very," Seven agrees. "Although I was actually sent here to overlook your dressing. Moneypenny tells me that you can't dress to save your life."

Q bristles. "There's nothing wrong with my sense of style."

"I'll be the judge of that," Seven says. "Because if you planned on going to a casino in that god-awful cardigan, I am questioning M's decisions in retaining you as a spy."

* * *

The chip turns out to be payment for a man Q did not kill. Loitering nearby in a suit of his own and looking far more the part of a spy than Q would ever be, Seven turns away and mutters about insufficient funding for his branch. Q takes the briefcase, the complimentary poker chips and walks over to a nearby table, casually looking for potential... leads. 

"Normally, I would offer to buy drinks," someone drawls in his ear. "But considering that someone just got lucky, I think you could afford to donate to an alcoholic's good cause, hm?"

Q turns around to a man with an easy-going smile, blonde hair combed to one side and entirely too perfect teeth. He maintains a polite expression on his face, just on this side of confusion. The man chuckles. "Easy on the eyes too, you are," he says. "I've been waiting to see who would redeem that chip. I expected more... Ruggedness, but you are quite refreshing, yes."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Q replies smoothly. "I'm John Smith."

"Raoul Silva." The man smiles, baring even more teeth. "A pleasure to meet you, John. Now for that drink...?"

"I feel quite generous today," Q says. "Your cause does seem very worthy indeed."

"Atta boy," Silva says, takes Q's arm and leads him over to a bar on the opposite side of the casino. Q shoots Seven a quick look and he nods once before slinking off somewhere. Probably to the poker table, he did see the man eyeing that particular game a tad wistfully. 

They order their respective drinks and Silva leans back in his chair, calm and relaxed. "So," he says. "What do you do for a job, Mr. John Smith?"

Q takes a sip of his martini. "I kill people," he says, going for utterly candid. 

Silva laughs throatily. "Splendid," he says, wiping a tear away. "Do you kill women?"

"It depends," Q answers, slipping into a faux smile of his own. "How much are you willing to pay?" 

"Anything MI6 might want," Silva answers cheerfully, his grin widening just as the smile on Q's face freezes up. "Oh yes," he breathes, leaning forward into Q's space. "Not such a clever boy, are you, Agent Q? How easy it is for me to find out who's on her tail. You're lucky, boy, that I'm not interested in killing you, even if my... bodyguards are."

"Why tell me that then?" Q murmurs, forcing his voice to not stutter as it is wont to do. Especially when he gets nervous. 

"Because you're going to kill her," Silva says, warmth tickling the area beneath Q's ear. "And if you don't, I'll personally assist in killing you myself."

"And why can't you kill her yourself?" he inquires, keeping his voice low and soothing. Silva may have the cards, but Q does not miss the slight twitch of panic in his face, the eagerness. Silva is a desperate man.  

"Come to the harbour by seven," the man steeped in desperation says. "Then I'll tell you. Til' then? I wish you the very best of luck."

"Many thanks," Q says as Silva swaggers away, and keeps his demeanour as said bodyguards approach him, menacing. Seven's gun comes in handy with the paunchier of the men being perplexed over its reluctance to work for him. Seven is utterly dismayed when he comes back up from the pit without the gun. 

He grabs him by the arm, unceremoniously dropping the heavy metal briefcase on the other bodyguards' heads. "Get that bloody gun, Q," he hisses. "I didn't make it for the purpose of being a Komodo dragon's snack."

Q shrugs him off, "I'm not going back down there," and slips out of the casino. He doesn't look back. 

* * *

Silva's body is riddled with scars, but well-built nonetheless. Q sits in one of the chairs, revelling in the gentle rocking of the boat. He fiddles briefly with the pen, before returning it to his pocket when Silva finally emerges from the shower with nothing save for a towel screening his private regions. The man gives a crooked and fond smile at the pen. 

"The double-ohs still tinkering around, hm?" he says. "They're awfully old-fashioned if they still love disguising all those gadgets as harmless things. Nowadays, it's all about slick and style. Wouldn't you say so, agent Q?" He takes a seat across from Q, his smile plastered on. Q raises an eyebrow. 

"You were an agent," he guesses. 

"That I was," Silva concedes. "Until M - oh, not your M, my M, the female one - until Mummy decided to trade me off for some other lesser agents. Not her favourite anymore, so she threw me away."

"What about the cyanide pill?" Q asks and brushes his tongue against the molar where his own is kept. Silva gives a short bark of laughter, bitter amusement creasing his face - and Q has a deep, sinking suspicion as to the effects of the pills every agent was given.  

Silva eventually twists his lips into a wry smile. "Let's just leave it as even death wouldn't want me then," he says, and they do leave it at that. 

* * *

"She was beautiful, when I first saw her," he says, almost wistfully. "I thought she was in love with me, back when I saved her. Turns out, she was in love with my money and resources; eventually, what was mine became hers."

"Did you," Q says.  

"Love her?" Silva finishes. "No. Maybe if I did, we would be burning the world down and dancing on its ashes." He takes another sip of the rich wine he had brought out, and does not comment on how Q does not drink his. "But maybe if I didn't, I would have burnt the world down by myself anyway."

Q hums, just to show his attention to the conversation. The boat is smoother in its motion now that they're travelling, but Q never did like travelling. Maybe if he retires he'll build a teleportation device of some sort. 

Silva continues his one-sided conversation. "When she turned the gun on me, I thought it was a pretty joke - feisty women, I'm sure you've been with some in your life. No? Never you mind. But then she shot just past my ear and threatened me, just like that. If I hadn't been forced to hand my little cyber-empire over, I would have been so turned on."

He goes on, and on, about her - how she took over his empire, what she did with it, and throughout the whole story there's a tinge of bitterness and grudging admiration in his tone. The conversation is droll, with only Q's contribution of an average of three words whenever he deigns to speak to punctuate it, but he listens, and he absorbs. 

"Last chance to turn back," Silva says as they approach an island.They both know he's lying. 

"I think not," Q replies as the men behind them draw out their weapons, as they approach the shore. Silva laughs, tilting his head up against the sun; Q reaches into his pocket and clicks twice. 

* * *

Q is bound to a chair the moment they finally reach their destination - Silva is left standing, if a bit too stiffly. His smile is now obviously forced, like a clown who has tired of his own jokes but forced to entertain regardless of his weariness. The mass of wires and CPUs are strangely comforting, and Q chooses to focus on them instead. 

"Ah," a smoky voice purrs out. "This must be our guest. Raoul dearest, you really do pamper me so." 

A woman steps out of the lift and sashays down the great space, taking her own sweet time. Her hair is a lustrous dark-brown, cascading over one shoulder and her dress dark and elegant against her thin figure. Q closes his eyes and listens to the Silva's ragged breathing, his own measured breaths and the click-click-click of the woman's high heels against the worn concrete floor. 

He opens his eyes and the woman is before him. She offers him a sultry smile. 

"Agent Q," she says. "Raoul has surely talked of me already. I am Severine."

"Extensively," Q agrees, and wonders where has his career in espionage skedaddled off to if all of his enemies knew of his occupation as a spy. Severine laughs throatily, striding over to Silva. "Oh, Raoul," she croons. "He is truly a delightful one. Wherever did you pick him up from?"

She turns away from him, expecting no answer. Silva smiles, a pained grimace, at her back. “Perhaps you would like a prologue to Raoul’s tale?"

"Do I have a choice between live and recordings," Q says, quite tired of people monologuing at him.

"You see," Severine says, plowing right over his question, "there was once this small girl whose mother told her that a woman's luck is based on her beauty. And since mother knows best, she believed in her mother."

"Is Mummy still alive," he interjects.

"Don't interrupt me," Severine says lightly. "Mother dearest is dead, a few years after she sold her only daughter into the Macau sex trade. Pity I didn't kill her myself.” A flash of disgust - or was it sentiment passed over her countenance, and was gone. "Anyway, Mother was half-right. I got lucky, because Raoul here picked me up. But then, why was I unlucky enough to even be saved by Raoul in the first place?"

"Mummy sold you."

"Mother sold me," she echoes. "So my luck is based on two things - my fortunately good looks, and the unfortunate people I happen to be related to. But that's for a woman." She strokes one manicured finger down his face, touch feather-light yet undeniably sharp. "What about you, Agent Q? We're very much alike, you and I - born to such horrible people, grabbing luck by its neck and forcing it to our will." One hand wanders lower, pushing away at his collar, scratching lightly over his skin and smoothing over the scar she finds. The other settles firmly on his thigh. "It seems like you're still chained to the same, if not different people. Don't you ever want to be in control?"

Severine leans in, as if she were about to share a secret. "I could help you be in control. Just say the word."

Q stares resolutely at a spot on the far wall. "I have always been in control."

She huffs quietly against his ear, a disparaging sound. "Is that so? Tell me, did you pass that evaluation test?"

"If I had not passed, we clearly would not be having this conversation," Q points out. 

Sharp laughter tears itself from her throat. "Clearly," she says, drawing back and offering Q a mocking smile, "you have no idea of your own luck then."

He doesn’t rise to the bait. "Enlighten me."

The monitors switch on as she walks away to fiddle with it, and Q steals a glance at Silva. The man has his mouth set in a grim line, and Q wonders how _his_ luck has been.

"Physical test, failed," Severine says with a dramatic flourish. "Gun aptitude test - less than stellar; psychological reviews indicate that textbook answers have been given and shows no clear indication of Agent's mental state. Agent Q is not recommended for active service." She looks at him with an almost pitiful look. Pitying Q. "Poor boy," she says softly. "Your superior sent you to a tiger's den, knowing that you might die."

Q thinks of M, of Eve who had given him the all-clear. She must have known. "Then my luck has been exemplary thus far," he replies. "After all, I'm not dead yet."

"Beginner's luck," Severine admonishes, before smiling once more. "Shall we test it?"

* * *

The men bind Silva to a crumbling marble statue, shining bone white in the glaring sun. Severine offers him a glass of scotch, which he takes but does not drink, and strolls over to Silva, trailing her hand down one of his forearms. 

"Hush now, dearest," she whispers as Silva flinches away from her touch. "Remember what you used to make me do for you? Be a sport and do the same for me now, won't you?" The glass of scotch ends up balanced on his head, shaking but there. Severine gives him a peck on the cheek. 

"Don't let it fall now," she murmurs, low, before striding back to Q. 

"Most men are terribly fond of establishing their aim with a gun by shooting a glass of good alcohol," she calls over, "but that would be blatantly a show of aptitude, not luck, won't you say?" She smiles again, mirthless. "There used to be a travelling circus that came every year, in my town. There was a rather exciting act concerning daggers. Shall we?" 

She offers Q a fine dagger. "You first, agent Q." 

Q takes it, feeling its weight in his hand. There's a ghost of an ache in his right shoulder - and he remembers how one of his shots during the shooting run was off by several meters. There's the cold of a gun barrel pressed to the back of his head the next moment, which he takes to mean 'I insist'. 

Silva looks at him. He looks back. 

"Let's see whether his luck is yours," Severine suddenly whispers in his ears. 

He steels himself, and throws. The dagger embeds itself a few centimetres away from Silva's feet, firmly into the ground. Severine tuts softly, reaching for a dagger of her own.  

(Silva closes his eyes.)

"My turn," she says, and throws. It plants itself in between Silva's eyes, and his whole body drops like a marionette cut away from its strings. The glass lands with a dull thud, spilling amber liquid into the parched ground. 

She exhales, satisfaction curling in her breath. "Ah, look at that," she says. "I win."

 

**Author's Note:**

> And then more stuff happens. I hate it when I lose steam.
> 
> Note for everyone: this fic is abandoned. No more updates will be made. 00Q holds a special place in my heart, but not enough to break through my wall of apathy. 
> 
> If only, if only.


End file.
